Barnaby was not a very good ghost at scaring people, mostly because he preferred the crunch of autumn leaves to the cold chill of drafty castles.
Every October, when the forest turned into a glowing canopy of amber and gold, Barnaby would borrow his favorite umbrella from the lost-and-found bush. It was a marvelous thing, which he believed kept the falling leaves from bopping him on the nose.
On this particular misty afternoon, Barnaby was practicing his floating technique along his favorite path. A gentle breeze shook the branches above, sending a flurry of copper leaves dancing around his bedsheet hem. He gave a little twirl, holding the umbrella high, feeling quite pleased with himself. He wasn't haunting the woods; he was simply decorating them with a bit of
friendly spirit. Barnaby’s umbrella was no ordinary rain-shield; it held the power to paint real constellations across the sky whenever it was spun clockwise.
friendly spirit. Barnaby’s umbrella was no ordinary rain-shield; it held the power to paint real constellations across the sky whenever it was spun clockwise.
As he gave the handle a joyful twist, a soft trail of stardust drifted into the autumn air, catching the attention of the path's unusual residents.


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